


Crossing the River

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: City of the Damned [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: (I promise it's real), (secretly of course), 1.03 Lone Gunmen, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Felicity Smoak, Chaptered, Disfigurement, Emotional Baggage, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e03 Lone Gunmen, F/M, Felicity Smoak runs the world, First Meetings, Heavy Angst, Homecoming, Homeless Network, I'm sorry for what I'm doing to you, It will rip your heart out, Oliver Queen Has PTSD, POV Oliver Queen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen returns home to Starling City without fanfare or hope, to find both himself and his city no longer the same.  But help comes, even when he least expects it, even when he doesn't think he deserves it.</p><p>A story that shows Oliver and Felicity meeting for the first time (again), under vastly different circumstances.<br/>A serious thank-you to all my readers who made 500 reviews and 20,000 hits on Technical Assistance possible.  Thank you so much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the playlist for this story [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/54TUf0iYVcodDPUM0kDTLn). (Excludes "Cause Disarray" because apparently J-Pop can't be found on Spotify.)
> 
> I wanted to do something very special for all of those wonderful hits and reviews on Technical Assistance, so I decided to post the longest "one-shot" I've ever written. I think it clocks in at over 10,000 words, and, while I've written it as a one-shot, it's actually too long to post as one. But I have 500 reviews on FanFiction and 20,000 hits on AO3, and that deserves some serious appreciation, especially since I've been neglecting so much due to school starting and my current collab and TA's standard writing time. So, consider this my show of appreciation.
> 
> This started as a small, innocuous idea, but it somehow turned into a monster of a fic with a huge story arc—and it only spans _three episodes_. Seriously, I don't know what happened, but it's a beast. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s an emotional roller coaster, because it is. There are several places that rip my heart out, so I guess the first thing I want to say is: _I’m sorry._
> 
> Anyway, it was my intention to post it all together as a one-shot, but, due to AO3's restrictions, I can't because it's too long. So, everywhere there would have been a scene break, I'm breaking the chapter instead, but I am posting it all together. So if you find this before all four "chapters" go up, they should be coming soon.
> 
> Also, before anyone asks about continuation, there might be a fic here and there at some point, but nothing of this magnitude ever again. I've been working on this fic for a month, and it's taken over the ton of things I need to write. So I hope you enjoy it, but please don't expect too much more from this universe. I hope you all enjoy it, and thanks for reading/commenting/reviewing. :)
> 
>  
> 
> **Special shout-out to ihatepeas, who was awesome enough to help me with the title and look over the first scene last month when I was having trouble. Thank you _so_ much!**

_Any man's death diminishes me,_   
_Because I am involved in mankind,_   
_And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;_   
_It tolls for thee._

— _"No Man is an Island," John Donne_

 

* * *

 

It's not the welcome that Oliver has spent the last five and a half years dreaming about, but it's the only one he needs.  As the bus pulls into Starling City and he sets his eyes on the city, he discovers he's never felt so empty or alone in his life.  He always imagined it with fanfare, with a chance to reconcile with Laurel, with Tommy's smile, his mother's embrace, and seeing the woman his sister has become in the five years stolen from him.  But it's not any of those things.

There's good reason why he didn't give his name to those Chinese fishermen, why he spent those months in Hong Kong slaving away for the little pay they gave him to earn a boat ride home, when all he'd have to do is wave his name around.  Because, in order to be Oliver Queen again, he would have to act as the old Ollie, who was never taken seriously, who never understood sacrifice, torment, and pain.  And he doesn't think he can.  That boy—that boy he had been so many lifetimes ago—was dead.  He had died, not when _The Queen's Gambit_ sank, but somewhere on the island of Lian Yu, when he had to make the first of many tough decisions.

Oliver envies the ignorance of his youth as he steps off the bus in the middle of the Glades, frowning.  It's raining, but he doesn't mind the cold or the damp anymore.  Too many years in the jungle have taught him how to survive, and the poor weather is only a mild inconvenience to him, something unworthy of note.  It does make it more difficult, however, to avoid his reflection in the puddles left behind; the last thing he wants to see is the angry, red scar across his cheekbone or the eyelids sutured shut over his empty right eye socket.  He bitterly thinks to himself that, if he were to see his family again, they wouldn't recognize the person he is.  His hair is shaved close against his skull, and the stubble on his jaw helps to mask some of the scarring.

Pulling his bag up over his shoulder, and the hood of his jacket over his head, he turns toward the abandoned factory his father once owned.  He's barely been in Starling City an hour, but yet he already knows where to go for the items he seeks.  He doesn't know where he'll live or how he'll hide in a city so busy, but he knows that he can't wander the city freely without an identity.  And he certainly can't be the man his father asked to fulfill a dying wish without a solid identity.

It's well past midnight, and even then the streets are busting in the Glades, but with a new kind of traffic.  These aren't honest citizens heading to work to earn a decent day's wages; these are criminals—men who spend their time selling the newest high and women who spend their nights selling themselves to the highest bidder.  Some of the women call out to him—even in the sorry state he's in now—and he ignores them, heading only for the Foundry.

Two would-be guards flank the cast iron gates, though they look bored.  They're muscular and fierce, but Oliver knows that, in a fight, he could probably step over their unconscious bodies and continue toward his goal in five minutes.  One eyes him carefully, while the other thinks he's going to sneak up on him by staying to Oliver's right, outside of his range of vision.  But Oliver has been in plenty of fights with only one eye to help him, and he's long since adjusted to the unfair advantage he gives his opponents.  And, in a world where the only options are to survive or die, he's won them all.

"State your business," the one in his range of vision says, crossing his arms over his chest.  Oliver supposes it's meant to be intimidating, but he's faced things a lot scarier than a common street thug.  And, besides, if anyone should be scared, it should be them.  Because Oliver is a man with nothing to lose, and that makes him a particular brand of dangerous that men like these wouldn't understand.

"I'm here to see Janus," he says carefully, the words tasting odd on his tongue.  Oliver can barely remember the last time he's spoken to anyone, much less in English.  The last few years have been spent communicating in Russian and Mandarin, and so his own native tongue doesn't sound right to him.  His voice is rusty and stale from disuse, causing it to sound particularly gravelly.

The guards pull back the gate and allow him entry into the factory that should have been his all along, and the campus is a veritable neighborhood all on its own—one that only exists at night.  But, in this world, there is no anarchy like outside the gates; everyone has a job to do, and they all do them well.  Oliver might even consider it a utopian society, if it wasn't made up with the undesirables of Starling City.

The stories were told even five years ago of this elusive City of the Damned, where the homeless and unwanted could live safely in the ruins of the old, decrepit buildings in the Glades.  They told stories of the city within and its leader, Janus, who gave anyone a home who needed one.  So, even though the rate of homelessness had spiraled out of control in the last five years, Oliver sees less people curled up on the streets than ever before.

He first heard the tale three years before the _Gambit_ set sail, and the elite had laughed it off as an urban legend, but he's pleased to discover it does, in fact, exist.  It's eerily quiet as he walks across the factory grounds toward the main building.  There are men and women in old, raggedy clothes milling about, but very few of them seem to interact.  Conversation is exchanged quietly in rare groups, but there isn't any violence or chaos.  No one is selling drugs, is drinking themselves into any early case of cirrhosis, is attempting to sell themselves for spare pocket change.  Maybe the stories are true, after all:  Janus is willing to help anyone, so long as they're willing to help themselves.

Oliver hopes he isn't the exception.

He enters the factory to find it desolate and barren, as to be expected, lined with cots and items belonging to the people that call the City of the Damned home.  He bypasses it with mild interest, knowing from the information he's gathered that Janus conducts business in the basement.  He removes his hood finally, and no one spares him a second glance, despite his appearance.  No one passes judgment here because everyone knows it isn't the outward appearance that matters.  Some of the other faces are disfigured as badly as—if not worse than—his, and no one seems notice him.  He thought he'd at least be seen as an outsider, but then he realizes this city is probably where outsiders seek refuge.  In that sense, he's merely another face in the crowd.  It's a surprisingly comforting thought.

He descends the stairs, to find less traffic on this level.  It's clear that no one dares bother Janus unless they need their fearless leader's guidance and support.  Or perhaps they simply allow respect for someone benevolent enough to help the people this city would prefer to leave behind.  Either way, the entire lower floor is empty except for a set of desks, one facing forward and one facing behind, with a single chair between them.  The front desk is covered with paperwork, but the one behind holds three state-of-the-art computers.  The executive, high-backed desk chair faces the opposite direction, and he can see the screens change as someone types away at a keyboard.

A sofa sits off to one side, where someone lays, draped over it.  Judging by the clothing, the person is probably male, but red hoodie and low light make it impossible to know for sure.  Then a head pops up, and Oliver can tell the boy is most likely in his teenage years, with dark, spiky hair and angular features.  He frowns at Oliver before asking in a hazy voice, "Practicing to be a pirate?"

"Roy, don't be rude," a voice calls from the desk, and Oliver is surprised to hear it come out sharp and decidedly feminine.  Her tone softens before she says to Oliver in a flurry of words, "I'm sorry about him—he's on painkillers for some broken ribs, and he's a little high on them right now.  He's usually pretty harmless.  Give me one second to finish this up, and I'll be right with you."

Unsure of whether to stand or sit, Oliver waits, his bag still hanging from his shoulder.  Then a minute turns into two, and he sits the bag on the floor.  Surely she won't mind him resting his stiff shoulder, but he doesn't exactly want to make a poor impression in case Janus is watching.  He stands between the two chairs in front of her desk, not wanting to sit without permission.  Years of standing on ceremony are still hardwired into his brain, and he thinks it would be rude to take up space without permission.

When she swivels in her chair, he expects her to just simply turn to face the desk clearly used to discuss business.  However, he's surprised when, after a quarter-turn, she rises from her seat, and she is the _last_ thing he expects to see in a place like this.  She looks somewhere between his own age and that of the teen on the couch, with blonde hair that falls just below her shoulder blades.  Square-framed, plastic glasses cover her blue eyes, mixing between black shades at the top and more amber coloring at the bottom.  Her mouth is painted in a startlingly fuchsia lipstick, the corners turned up in a slight, tentative smile.

She walks around the desk to face him, and he finds her better dressed than any he's seen here.  Her black pencil skirt may not be designer—and might be shorter than most office skirts he's seen in his lifetime—but it's fairly new.  She matches it with a powder pink button-down with long sleeves, and she looks like she's ready for a day at the office.  Well, as she crosses her arms, he decides that perhaps not; he's never met anyone who works in an office and wears _turquoise_ nail polish.

She studies him with intelligent eyes for a long moment, not even flinching at his severe appearance.  Finally, she comments cordially to him, "You're a new face.  I know everyone to ever walk into this building."  She leans back against the edge of the mahogany desk.  "Can you give me a name?"  Oliver balks because the last thing he wants to give her is a part of his identity, but she must realize that because she smiles.  "It doesn't have to be yours—just something you'll answer to.  And no surnames."

He doesn't want the first words he says to her to be a lie, so he gives her the truth.  "Oliver," is his answer, his voice raspy from going too long without speaking.  He clears his throat, but it does nothing for his nerves.  Perhaps finding refuge in the City of the Damned wasn't his best idea; it's been too long since an interaction with a person hasn't ended in violence for him.

Carefully, she holds out her hand, and it takes Oliver a moment to realize that it's meant to be an offer for a handshake.  "The people who tell stories in the night know me as Janus," the little blonde informs him as they shake hands, "but my friends call me Felicity.  Welcome to Charon, Oliver."  There's something naturally warm about her smile, and he understands now why so many of the city's homeless go to her when all else fails:  she makes them _want_ to believe there's a way out.

Felicity radiates hope, and he finds it's a particularly dangerous feeling.

She motions to the chairs beside him, her demeanor calm and inviting.  "Have a seat, Oliver.  We don't stand on ceremony here," she says gently, before uncrossing her legs and circling the desk.  She drops back into her chair with a rare sort of elegance, and then slides it back up to meet the desk.

"Charon?" he repeats as he takes the seat, inching it closer so that he can rest his forearms on the edge of her desk.  It's an intriguing name, one that sounds familiar and foreign all at once, in the same sense of her identity as Janus.

She steeples her fingers as she rests her elbows on the desk.  "In Greek mythology," she explains, "there was no concept of Heaven or Hell.  They believed that, when one's life ended, they crossed the River Styx by boat, guided by the ferryman, Charon.  Once they reached the opposite bank, it was then that it was decided where they would go.  The heroic found their way to the fields of Elysium, while the wicked found their livers feasted upon for all eternity."  She frowns.  "All dark and creepily disturbing thoughts on eternal torture aside, that's what this place is."  She waves a hand.  "This city is a place for those who are ready and willing to start their lives over.  I help guide lost souls from their last life into the next."  She shrugs.  "Whether that next life is Heaven, Hell, or something in between, well, that's up to you.  I just help you get there—it's up to you to make it everything your past life wasn't."

For a moment Oliver wonders how in the world she ended up _here_ , of all places, based on the way her mind works.  Her speech is a little stilted and she's a little awkward, but she's one of the finest orators he's ever met, despite those flaws.  In fact, he thinks that it's _because_ of them that she's so convincing.  Her last words weren't delivered like a speech—routinely given and always scripted—but flowed from within.  She's exactly what these people need to band together—much like them, but with the aura of success and the dress of a professional.  "So, Oliver," she starts, moving her hands to one side as she looks at him, "why is it that you decided to find me?"

He hesitates because no one in his life has ever studied him so thoroughly.  She doesn't look at him—she stares _into_ him with the piercing, studious eyes of an intellectual and natural observer.  He feels thoroughly laid bare, open and exposed for her to see.  "I need papers," he says finally, careful with his words.  He isn't used to speaking, and he can't wield words with the same magic that she seems to use as easy as breathing.

He expects her to hesitate, but she doesn't even flinch at the idea of forging legal documents.  "Do you need a full workup, Oliver, or do you have a starting point?" is her question.  He hesitates because she answers so fast, and she continues, "It doesn't matter to me—I can do either.  And, because we're on the fringes of society, we can get away with doing some illegal things, like forging papers.  It takes longer to do a full workup—about a week, depending on how much overtime I have to log at my day job—but you can give me any name you want and I'll give you everything you need."

"I need a full workup," he says finally, though he already knew the answer to that.  There's nothing he's wanted more than to leave his life as Oliver Queen behind, and this is the only way to do it.  It tears him apart to leave his family, but he knows they'll do much better without him.  After all, he can't be Ollie anymore, and he really doesn't want to try.  Better to lie to strangers than the people he loves.

Felicity nods before grabbing a pen and paper.  "Alright, I think I can do that for you, Oliver," she answers cordially, twirling her pen between her fingers.  He likes that she's careful to use his name every time she speaks, and he thinks that might be her way of memorizing all these names.  Hundreds live here, and though Oliver can't believe she knows _all_ of their names, he can guess that she manages to keep quite a few straight.  "I need a name for the documents.  First, middle—if you want one—and last."

It takes him a moment to decide, simply because he wants one that won't make him stand out in any way, and he needs something he'll answer to well.  "Eric David Wilson," he decides finally, and if Felicity has questions about the disparity between the name he gave her and the one on his documents, she doesn't show it.  For once in his life, he feels like no one is judging him at every opportunity, and he thinks he might like that feeling.  The last name sends a pang of grief through him, but Slade _did_ call them brothers once, and it honors the friend that Edward Fyers murdered so brutally.

She writes it down, after asking multiple questions about the spelling.  "Are you illegal or on the run?" she asks this time, causing every cell in his body to stand on high alert.  She looks up, and she flushes when she realizes that the question was poorly worded.  "Sorry," she adds, speaking quickly now.  "I've been asking these questions so long that I expect everyone to know why I'm asking.  It's just that, if you were born outside the US, it's less suspicious if I have immigration and citizenship papers.  And it's easier to hack databases in foreign countries for birth certificates."  She shrugs.  "Less work on me, but I can do them either way."  She bites her lip.  "And now I'm babbling again.  Please start talking before I need to fill the silence again."

He's surprised to find himself smiling—he hasn't done that in over five years, and it feels similar to the sensation of holding a bow for the first time:  awkward and unnatural.  "Neither," he says finally.  He hasn't been in the country long enough to cause any trouble, and he was born in Starling City.

To his surprise, she scoffs.  "I'll let you in on a little secret, Oliver:  I've been forging papers for people since I was sixteen years old, and I've never met anyone who doesn't fall into either category."  He balks in surprise; he thought she was too young to be Janus, but he just figured it was an inherited title.  Now he's realizing that there might have always been one Janus who ruled Charon.  She smiles.  "You might be a legal citizen and you might not be on the run from the _law_ , but it's my experience that people who need papers are running from _something_."  She chuckles, but there doesn't seem to be much humor in the sound.  "And I know because I wasn't born Felicity Meghan Smoak and this blonde hair comes out of a bottle.  You're not the only one running, Oliver."

Oliver hesitates, but she seems to be waiting for him to speak.  "That's a very personal thing to tell a stranger," he says finally, his voice low and tentative.

She smiles in triumph, and he thinks she might have just baited him into a conversation.  "But you're not a stranger," she corrects.  "Charon isn't a city, Oliver.  It's a community where all are welcome and none are turned away.  There are no strangers in this place.  Stranger implies 'unwelcome,' and I don't turn anyone away."  She frowns.  "Well, unless they're perfectly willing to drown in their own misery or find themselves in drugs or alcohol.  If you're willing to help yourself," she qualifies carefully, seeming to think about that wording, "then you'll always be welcome here."

Before he can speak, she picks up her pen again, saying, "And I'll need a birth year from you."  She frowns.  "I don't like this part, but I can't pick just anywhere for you to be born or have your record stored.  I need somewhere that doesn't have a paper archive anymore—so I can just slip in and write up a certificate—or one that had its records destroyed in a fire.  Date will vary based on that, too."  She taps her pen against the notepad.  "But if you'll tell me where you'd like your records to start, I'll do my best."

"I was born in nineteen-eighty-five," he admits finally.  "In May, if that helps you."  He finds himself warming up to this girl, so he's feeling a little less secretive about his information.  "And I'd like to have my record show I was born in Starling, if at all possible."  He hesitates before adding, "Starling City has always been my home."

"That must be a nice feeling," she says as she writes everything down.  "I wish I could say the same.  I've lived a lot of places," she admits carefully, "but none of them have ever felt like home."  She laughs.  "I found my way to Starling, and I was picking pockets to stay alive.  I picked the wrong pocket one day—or maybe the _right_ one, depending on how you choose to look at it—and the first mayor of Charon caught me and showed me this place.  He became the closest thing I've ever had to a parent, and, when he died, I took over here."  She smiles with nostalgia, looking away for a moment.  "And I decided we needed better brand awareness, so I had a few busybodies start the rumor."  She waves a hand.  "But that's neither here nor there.  We were doing paperwork."  Oliver can't help but think that's a nice way to phrase it.  "Public school will be part of the record.  College education—yes or no?"

Oliver frowns because he's dropped out of four ivy league colleges, and he doesn't think that he could pull off enough knowledge for a degree in anything.  "No," he decides.  Then he almost asks a question, commenting, "This seems like a lot of detail for a few papers."

Felicity stops writing to look up at him, an eyebrow arched and her head tilted to the side, and Oliver decides that he's said completely the wrong thing.  She waves her pen around in wild hand gestures as she says, "'A few papers'?  I'm _not_ some random hacker who does things half-assed, Oliver.  You can get a fake ID from ninety percent of college students out there.  Any hacker with a camera can do that."  She points at him.  "What I do is art.  I don't just throw papers around—I grow an entire person out of these details.  We're talking birth certificates, immunization records, credit scores, and discipline records from high school.  I am going to create Eric David Wilson out of _nothing_ over the next week."  She crosses her arms.  "I mean, some of my new IDs?  They've come back to me years later, and they're pissed because they've received _jury duty_.  My IDs are so solid that they've been integrated into the system."  She taps her pen against the desk surface.  "So yes, it is a lot of detail, but it's in a business where every detail counts."

He holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat, and a new voice in the room chuckles.  "Felicity, don't scare the poor boy," a rich, bass voice says with a laugh.  "You're pretty intimidating when you want to be, and he hasn't known you that long.  Work him into your intimidating side."  The man steps out of a shadowed area, and his smile softens the level of intimidation most would have when seeing his very muscular arms.  Oliver studies him intently, knowing the physical threat in the room when he sees it.  He extends a hand toward Oliver.  "John Diggle, but most people call me Diggle or Digg.  I help Felicity with this place."

Oliver shakes it, unsure of how to introduce himself.  Felicity saves him, though, by answering for him, "Digg, this man will be Eric Wilson in a week, thanks to yours truly."  Oliver offers her a look of uncertainty, raising an eyebrow at her, and she responds with a wink and an enigmatic, _Mona Lisa_ smile.  It's as if the name he gave her is a shared secret, a small thing between friends.  "So," she starts, this time her question aimed at Diggle, "are you headed out for the night?"

Diggle nods.  "Yeah, I think so," he replies.  He chuckles quietly.  "After all, I'm going to need some sleep if I'm supposed to keep up with Thea in the morning.  That girl is constantly in motion."  The words are said with indulgence, as if his heart isn't in the complaining.

Oliver can't help but sit up straighter in his chair, oblivious to Felicity's watchful eyes flicking to him for a second.  It's an uncommon name, and Oliver dares himself to hope that they're talking about his sister.  He's been wanting news since he stepped foot in Starling City.  Part of him wanted to visit her—and his mother—from the first moment his feet touched soil in the city limits, but he knows that if he did, he'd never be able to blend into the city.  He can never go home; if he does, he knows he'll stay.  Even miles away from home, he finds it hard to resist the temptation, and, truthfully, if it wasn't for his father's dying wish, Oliver never would have returned to Starling City.

Felicity rolls her eyes at the bigger man.  "Please, Digg, spare us the theatrics," she teases.  "You've loved that girl since you started working there four years ago.  And I can't blame you—she's a sweet girl when she wants to be.  A bit misguided sometimes, but a genuinely decent girl."  She turns that smile on Oliver.  "Digg found a new start here, too, once upon a time," she explains.  "Now, he works as Thea Queen's driver, when he's not down here serving as my right-hand man."

She's waiting for a response, so Oliver dutifully turns to Diggle.  "That must be a challenging job at times," he baits carefully, and this time he sees the twist of Felicity's mouth, a thoughtful expression.  He decides he doesn't like the way her blue eyes seem to peer through him anymore.  She's too observant, and while he didn't think he'd ever think that about anyone, she's far too intelligent for her own good.

"It can be," Diggle admits quietly.  "The girl has been through a lot—losing her brother and father at the same time.  But she's tougher than you'd think, even though sometimes she does sink into drugs and alcohol."  It's the last thing Oliver wants to hear about his sister; he could help ease that pain, but he can't be her brother _and_ fulfill their father's wishes.  Putting the city first is suddenly an impossible decision that he never wanted.  Surely his father wouldn't want him to let his sister linger in that dark place.  But then Oliver remembers that Thea and his mother are _why_ he wants to do it in the first place—he wants to make Starling City safer for them all.

Even if he has to do it while they think he's buried at sea.

Diggle waves to Felicity.  "Goodnight," he says.  Then he calls, "Goodnight, Harper."  With that, he's gone, leaving Oliver to deal with the fallout and indecision of his words.

Felicity smiles at Oliver.  "You're welcome to stay here while you're waiting for me to finish your IDs," she says, as though Diggle was a mere interruption.  "We have running water, a few cots, and plenty of spare clothes, if you're interested."

Oliver has thought of a thousand reasons why he should stay with these people, but the one opposing though is the one that changes his mind:  he can't be the hero this city needs from a less-than-legal homeless shelter.  "Thank you," he says quietly, "but I think it would be better if I moved on."  Hesitantly, he adds, "I'm used to being alone."

Her smile stays in place, but her eyes seem less vibrant, as though she understands his pain.  "I understand," she says easily, with far more understanding than he'd like to hear.  "If that's the case, come see me in three days to see how things are going."  She picks up a business card from her desk and hands it to him.  "I'm not here every night—Diggle and I take turns on the night shift.  You can contact me at any of those numbers or places—if I'm not here, I'll be there."

Oliver examines the card, surprised to find a cell, home, and office number printed on the back, as well as an address on the other side, under the name _Felicity Smoak_. He frowns as he reads her work address, under the heading, _Queen Consolidated - IT Department_.  "I probably won't contact you at work," he says slowly, carefully.  "I wouldn't exactly fit in at Queen Consolidated."

She waves a hand, smiling as if she had anticipated that response.  "No one would think twice about it," she corrects him.  With an amused smile, she adds, "Everyone thinks I spend my weekends working at a homeless shelter.  They're used to the people of Charon visiting me when necessary.  I don't think anyone notices anymore."  She shrugs.  "It's your choice, but you're certainly welcome anywhere you choose to find me."

He turns to leave, but she calls, "Oliver?"  He turns on the spot, fixing her with a question in his expression.  She bites her lip, hesitating for the first time tonight.  Even through her babbling and excessive rambling, she hasn't hesitated yet.  "I understand the familiarity that comes with being alone," she starts slowly, "but that doesn't mean you _have_ to be alone."  The corners of her mouth turn up into a knowing smile.  "My father—my _adoptive_ father—had a favorite quote:  'No man is an island, / Entire of itself, / Every man is a piece of the continent, / A part of the main.'"  She crosses her arms, slowly walking around the desk.  "While the rest of the world may have forgotten that no one is an outcast, we haven't."  She walks up to him, moving slowly so he understands her movements.  Her hand falls on his shoulder.  "Good luck, Oliver."  He understands that it's the nicest thing she can say at this point.  She can't wish him a happy future or a good turn of events, but she _can_ wish him luck in his future endeavors, hope that his future is brighter than his past.

And, perhaps, against his better judgment, he likes her.  Part of Oliver can imagine a life in Charon, helping wayward souls like himself.  And Felicity's sincere understanding and lack of judgment, while unfamiliar, isn't an unwelcome change.  In just a few minutes, they've become something almost like friends.  And though, in Oliver's experience, friends only lead to pain, it's nice to think of her as an ally—even though he might want her as a partner in his missions instead.  But that's a question he'll never ask her because no one can be trusted and he will not endanger anyone because he’s been alone for perhaps a little too long.

And it's then that he knows he'll eventually find his way back to Felicity Smoak—even _after_ she gives him his papers.


	2. Part Two

And he does see her again, a week after he picks up his paperwork. According to the rest of the world, he's officially Eric David Wilson, born and raised in Starling City. She kept her promises, and she started his second life in Starling City, as well. She has built a world around him, and she's chosen to write his past five years in a very remote portion of Africa, as if to explain his missing eye as poor medical options while alone. It's a surprisingly nice touch, one that she didn't even discuss with him.

Even as a new man to the rest of the world, Oliver has rarely felt as tense in his life as he does now, in the middle of Queen Consolidated's eighteenth floor. He doesn't look as though he fits in with these computer technicians, so he moves as quickly as possible toward Felicity's office. People stare, but he doesn't focus on it. After all, he may be a freak, a pariah, but he knows there's no such thing in _her_ world, at least.

He finds her with her head in her hands, and he thinks it might be the wrong time to talk to her about anything. He turns to leave, but then realizes that he's not sure when he'll be able to see her again. His only option during the day is to catch her at work, and he's too busy with his work as a vigilante—the one they're starting to call the Arrow—to find her at night. He clears his throat before asking hesitantly, "Felicity?"

Her head snaps up immediately, and a smile grows across her face as recognition kicks in. "Good to see you again, Eric," she says, and now he realizes what a fool he was to think she wouldn't remember him. Apparently Felicity is blessed with an eidetic memory, so she knows him every time. It really should stop surprising him, but he marvels at how she's able to keep all their names straight. She waves toward her desk. "Please, come in—and shut the door behind you, will you?"

He does as she asks, then finds that the guest chair is in the middle of her workspace. When he sits, she focuses on him with those focused eyes again, her attention on nothing but him. "What can I do for you, Oliver?" she asks, using the first name he gave her now that the door is closed and they have some privacy. She bites at her lip. "Not that I think every time you show up you're in need of some assistance." She crosses her legs, smoothing down the skirt of her dress as she does so, before resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. "You just don't strike me as the kind to stop in to chat."

"I need your help again," he admits, holding up the battered laptop that once belonged to Floyd Lawton. "I'm having a little trouble with my laptop." He likes that he doesn't have to fake a smile or attempt to charm her to seek her assistance; all he has to do is be himself, a surprisingly rare thing in the life he leads.

She takes it from him, setting it on her desk and opening the lid. She gives off a low whistle when she sees the screen. Before she can ask, he tells her, "I was at a coffee shop, and I spilled a latte on it." It's the best he can think of on short notice, and it's all he can do to keep from wincing at his own lie.

Not surprisingly, Felicity isn't buying it, either. "Really?" she says flatly, crossing her arms, a hint of a smile still playing at her mouth. She uncrosses them a moment later to point to the screen with a turquoise fingernail. Because _these_ "—she puts her finger in one of the holes in the screen—"look like bullet holes to me." She holds up her hands. "Granted, I'm no expert, but it's a little unmistakable, don't you think?"

Oliver offers her a tentative smile, genuine because he's with her. "My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," is his quick reply, and somehow he manages to say it with a straight face. Maybe that's why he's a liar—he's particularly good at keeping a straight face when the rest of the world can't.

She crosses her arms again, this time no amusement in her features. Her head tilts completely perpendicular as she heaves a long-suffering sigh. This time he can't help the smile that crosses his face, and he doesn't try to mask it with anything. Smiling feels... _wrong_ after all of these years of unhappiness, but he thinks the opportunities are going to be rare for a very long time. "You don't have to tell me the truth, Oliver," she says carefully, gauging his expression all the while, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie to me."

He winces, hating that look on her face that managed to appear after that speech. She almost looks _disappointed_ , and it's the last thing he wants her to be. "I'd rather not say where I found it," he says quietly, trying to offer an olive branch after lying to her—and so poorly, at that.

It clears up her frown immediately, and she breaks into that contagious smile. "Well, I think I can help you with it," she responds cheerfully. She examines the screen and then the bottom of the casing with a practiced eye, not moving too fast or too slow over the components as she studies it. "Components are intact," she comments finally, setting it back down on the desk. She pulls out a series of cords from a corner of her workspace, underneath a monitor mounted to the cubicle's wall. "I think the only thing damaged was the screen. If that's the case..." She trails off as she plugs in the cords and presses the power button. Her eyes light up when it immediately powers up, the operating system's logo appearing on the monitor. "We should be able to start it right up without any trouble," she finishes the thought, looking rather pleased with herself. She turns back to him. "Anything in particular that you were looking for?"

He frowns, not wanting to endanger her in this life, but, at the same time, needing her help desperately. "Anything that would tell me where the owner was planning on going next," he says finally, slowly. He shouldn't be telling her this, but he doesn't see a way around it.

She seems to understand his turmoil somehow. She studies him for a long moment before saying, "Okay, I think I can deal with that. Blueprints, maps—that sort of thing, right?" He doesn't answer, but she doesn't expect him to. She opens a black window and starts typing a string of nonsense in it, some sort of language that she understands as well as Oliver understands Mandarin or Russian. After a few heartbeats, she pulls up a blueprint, and she leans closer to study it. "Looks like the Exchange Building," she comments to Oliver. "It's where the Unidac Industries auction is scheduled to take place." She frowns. "Unfortunately, _I'm_ getting dragged along—they're a technology firm, and they're not going to list out the patents until the night of the auction."

Oliver immediately goes on high alert because he knows that's going to put her in the middle of a dangerous situation. Lawton is targeting the Unidac auction for a reason, and Oliver knows from experience that Lawton doesn't hesitate to take out anyone who stands in the way of a contract. It's an odd feeling, concern; after three years completely alone on that island, it's just as foreign to him as the ability to smile.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he's stopped by a knock on the door. Before Felicity can answer, Diggle pokes his head in, and she immediately switches off the screen and folds the laptop down. The screen took most of the damage, so it looks mostly normal when closed. Diggle's eyes land on Oliver. "Is this a bad time?" he asks carefully.

Felicity waves a hand. "Eric and I were just catching up over lunch," she says easily, lying far better than Oliver would have ever expected. He feels guilty that he's caused her to lie to her friend, but she doesn't seem particularly upset by it. "Come on in."

"Of course," he continues slowly, "I brought a friend." A playful smile crosses his face, and it takes everything Oliver has to contain himself when Thea walks into the room. She's more beautiful than he thought possible, grown so much older in so little time. For not the first time, Oliver thinks it's unfair that five years were stolen from him, and how angry he could be if he thought too long about how much of his sister's life he's missed.

Time has stolen much from him, but, no matter how much he asks for it, he can't get it back.

"Hey, Thea," Felicity says, not missing a beat, though Oliver watches her eyes flick to him a couple of times. Thea's eyes study Oliver with hesitance, clearly upset by the man she's seeing in front of her. It's then that he knows he'll never be able to tell her; she's already horrified by him, and he won't prolong her disgust by admitting who he is. Felicity notices the silent exchange, so she breaks it with, "Thea, this is Eric Wilson. He's a friend. Eric, this is Thea Queen, but I bet you already knew that."

He forces a smile that causes Felicity to raise an eyebrow at him because she already knows he doesn't smile. "Nice to meet you," he says quietly, not offering a hand. She's already upset by his presence, and he's not going to force it on her if she's not interested.

She frowns at him, pointing to her own right eye, and it causes him to tense. "Is there actually an eye in there, or...?" She trails off, asking him to finish her sentence for her. It's not the ideal situation—him in the same room as Thea falls far short of ideal—but at least she's not calling him a freak. And, knowing Thea, she probably would.

"Thea," Felicity says gently, and it's a warning with just enough edge to show a surprising level of protectiveness. It startles him, but then Felicity offers him a secretive wink and another barely-there smile as an answer to his silent question. The message is clear: _I protect my own, Oliver._

Oliver surprises himself by putting a hand on her forearm. He doesn't like physical contact since it usually ends in injury for him, but something about her feels comforting and reminds him that, maybe, the world isn't always a cruel place. "It's fine, Felicity," he says quietly to her before turning to Thea. "No," he says after a long moment. "I don't have a right eye anymore." Something about the admission is cathartic, as if he _needed_ someone to ask about it. "I was in Africa"—his eyes flick to Felicity for a second, and she answers the look with a smile—"for my job, and our group was attacked." Finally he tells the only truth in the story: "One of the militia members threw a knife, and it went through my eye socket. There was a medical student with us and she was able to fix it, but she had to remove the eye. She sutured it closed to prevent any infection, and it's sealed together now."

Thea makes a face. "God, that's awful," is her answer, shaking her head. Oliver can't help but agree, frowning. "People are twisted."

He hates the cynicism in that statement, but he can't deny the truth of it. In his experience, people are just that—cruel, manipulative, and twisted. But he knows he's no exception. Felicity might defy that belief, but she's certainly the exception and not the rule.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he rises, knowing he can't bear to be in the same room with Thea any longer if he doesn't want his mouth to betray him. "Thank you, Felicity," he says then, and she smiles as though she understands—perhaps a little _too_ well for Oliver's liking—disconnecting the laptop and offering it to him.  He takes it from her. "I'll see you later." It's meant to be a simple farewell, but he actually means it.

"I'll look forward to it," she answers with a faint smile, her expression and tone sincere. It's a rare quality in his world, and he thinks it's a beautiful one.

He nods before walking out the door, and he hears Thea say behind him, "Wow, he's an odd duck. You never cease to surprise me with your friends, Felicity."

Oliver admits to waiting around long enough to hear her say, "He's not odd—just jaded used to being alone. And I think he's a little tired of it, but doesn't know how to break the cycle. The world is a cruel place sometimes, Thea, and I think he knows that better than anyone." There's a short pause before saying quietly, "He doesn't share personal things, so thank you for being sympathetic—I don't think he's used to that."

He walks away then, wondering when Felicity learned how to read him so well.


	3. Part Three

Oliver hides in the wings, waiting for any sign of movement from Deadshot in the scene below. So far he hasn't seen any action, and it causes his jaw to clench, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He re-grips his bow, the only sound made by his leather glove rubbing against the wooden surface.

Frowning at the offending black eyepatch in his hand, he sighs and slides it over his eye, knowing it's the best option. Though it won't give the police much to know he's missing an eye, very few people have their eyes sutured shut, and he doesn't want to give the police any more than he has to about his identity. It feels like he's masking a part of identity, but then he reminds himself that it's exactly what he's trying to do.

He sighs and then pulls the hood over his head, liking the way it hangs low over his head and shadows his face. He slowly zips the jacket over his torso, making sure the long-sleeved shirt with the high collar hides the worst of his scars. It's a little warm, but it's a small price to pay for being unidentifiable.

He raises his binoculars again, watching the auction down below for signs of disarray, only to find none. His vision finally lands on his mother, in a black dress, looking perhaps a little older but so similar; he has to take a deep breath when he recognizes that she's on the arm of his father's former CEO—then man she married. Oliver thinks it isn't fair—he doesn't get to move on, and he wonders why she gets to forget the man she loved so dearly, the son she lost. Then he realizes he wouldn't want to see her in agony anyway.

Waltzing in behind them is Thea, hanging on Diggle's arm, talking quickly and waving her free hand amiably. The older man nods, hanging on every word with an indulgent, almost brotherly smile, and Oliver feels the corners of his mouth turn up. Perhaps Thea has fared the best, then, finding herself a replacement along the way. Thought it saddens Oliver a little, he thinks it might be for the best.

Another woman walks in behind them, on her own but not seeming self-conscious due to the lack of a man to take her arm. She looks lovely a deep shade of midnight blue, her blonde curls pinned over one shoulder. She doesn't wear gaudy jewelry, but lets a set of diamond teardrops hang from her ears, a bar in the top of one of them in a subtle show of defiance of the formal setting. She studies the room with piercing blue eyes, her fuchsia lips pursed.

It surprises him because of the level of attraction he feels toward her, familiar and foreign at the same time. It’s no secret that Oliver had his share of relationships with women—often multiple ones at once—before the island, but he’s avoided everything serious since. He knows that he’s not ready to commit to anyone, and God knows he can’t handle the idea of having someone _dependent_ on him when he can’t even get his _own_ shit straightened out. But something about her would make him want to try under different circumstances, if he wasn’t so very obviously damaged.

But then she holds up her clutch, and Oliver very nearly drops the binoculars when he sees the turquoise fingernails.

He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away and concentrate on keeping his family safe and stopping Deadshot. Of course there are no signs of him because he’s probably not in the building, but, still, Oliver expects a laser sight or a flash of a sight from one of the other buildings surrounding the Exchange.

He gets it, landing on Walter Steele’s chest, and Oliver tries to trace it back to the source so he can send an arrow through the guy. But, before his binoculars leave the scene, someone steps in front of Walter, and it’s almost as if Oliver’s blood turns to ice when he sees that red dot trained on his sister.

He doesn’t know what to do because there’s nothing _to_ do. Deadshot has taken cover inside the building to the east, and there’s no way that Oliver can reach any of them to stop it. The only thing that gives him hope is that Walter moves, and he hopes that the assassin hasn’t taken the shot yet.

It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s pulled violently out of the path just before the bullet lands in the wall and chaos spreads through the building. It’s his assumption that Diggle is doing his job, but he’s very surprised to see Felicity’s hand wrapped around his sister’s arm as the blonde pulls her into a sitting position behind a table, effectively blocking them from the direction.

For a moment, Oliver wonders just exactly what Hell she’s been through, but then his mind snaps back to the task at hand. He sees a burst of movement in the eastern building, and he figures Deadshot is going to try to complete his mission before the cops get there. Knowing that, he fires one of the special grappling arrows into the side of the building and swings toward it, knowing impact with the window is his only way in.

He tries not to tense as he goes through the plate glass window, but his left shoulder crashes through it, causing him to wince. It's a painful piece of work, but he knows he has to head off Floyd Lawton, to stop him from hurting innocent people. Lawton's mode of travel is a little faster, as he's already there, using the same arm-mounted guns he used when Oliver broke into his motel room.

Lawton fires at Oliver as soon as he sees him, and he ducks behind a pillar, obviously not fast enough because fire shoots through his torso, just above his hip. A quick glance downward confirms that he'll have to dig out a bullet later, but for right now, he's more concerned about the lone gunman and the curare already starting to spread through his system. From experience, he knows he has some time, but now he's on a time clock.

"You're good," Lawton calls, "but so am I. We're both after the guys with the money—and I'm willing to share my cut."

Oliver answers with an arrow, darting around the pillar for half a second, and Lawton screams as it goes through him. It takes his left shoulder, and the distraction of pain gives Oliver enough time to run up to him and disarm him. Blood boils in his veins as he remembers this man nearly put a bullet through Thea tonight, and he clenches his fist so hard it shakes. "You and me," he spits angrily, "we're not the same. I kill for this city—you kill for the money." He draws the bow again, this time aiming for the man's heart.

"Oliver!" a voice shouts, startling him, then he hears the sound of crunching glass as someone walks up to him. A hand falls on his shoulder, and he whirls to find one very disheveled blonde staring at him, her mouth turned down into a frown. Her hair is sticking out in multiple directions, her dress is torn, and she's standing awkwardly due to a broken heel, her ankle already starting to turn purple.

"That's enough, Oliver," she says quietly, and he takes a moment to wonder what gave him away. Then he remembers this is Felicity Smoak, with her observant eyes and quick intelligence—and she probably knew he was the Arrow before he did. Her eyes are pleading, her voice calm and steady, pointing toward where Thea watches them both, eyes wide. "See? Your sister is safe—a few scratches, maybe, but he didn't hit her." She motions around the room, pointing to some of the people still lying face down on the ground, not breathing. "Haven't _enough_ people died for one night?"

He doesn't answer, but she doesn't seem to expect a response, her hand reaching for the bullet wound above his hip. He snatches her fingers back, explaining his actions with, "Don't touch it—the bullet is laced with a slow-acting poison."

She frowns and raises an eyebrow, but asks easily, "Do you have something to treat it?" When he nods, she fishes a set of keys out of her clutch, proffering them to him. "Good. There's a first aid kit in the glove box of my car, and it has a set of tweezers that are excellent for removing bullets. If you'll hunker down in the back seat, I'll take you somewhere safe." Sirens echo down the street, and she gives him a shove toward the doors. "Go—I'll give a statement and I'll be a few minutes."

He does as she asks, taking a moment to pull a small pouch from his pocket and pinch out some of the herbs from the island, chewing on the dry leaves. They're bitter and more horrible than they are crushed, but he doesn't have that kind of time. Then he clicks the button on the remote until he finds the black sedan, pulling open the door and tearing through the glove box for the first aid kit. Once he finds it, he moves to the back seat, stretching across it as best he can and removing the bullet. He means to sew it up with a pack of suture he finds in the kit, but the first traces of the poison take effect, and his muscles start to spasm.

It's the last thing he remembers before he passes out.


	4. Part Four

He awakens in a fog, and the first thing he realizes is that he's far too comfortable to be in Felicity's tiny sedan. His hood has fallen back, the eyepatch is (mercifully) gone, and his jacket is unzipped. Hot air fans across his cheek, and he knows it's not right for a car's heating system. After enough of the fog has lifted to open his eyes, he tilts his head to the side to find two very large dark eyes staring at him, attached to the biggest dog he's ever seen in his life. It's black and... _woolly_ , its head is titled downward to stare at Oliver.

The dog's tail is wagging, but Oliver has had enough experience with security dogs to know that doesn't always mean anything. The beast simply watches him expectantly, waiting for him to make a move. When Oliver stays still, the dog finally prompts him to action with a sudden, loud bark that makes him jolt into a sitting position. Then he groans as the bullet wound tears.

"Grendel," Felicity's voice calls from another room, "leave him alone. He's not a toy." Her head pokes out of what looks like a kitchen, and she smiles at Oliver. "Good, you're up. That monster at your feet is Grendel. But don't worry—he's a gentle giant. You're only in danger of being licked to death."

Oliver doesn't say anything, watching the dog warily. When he manages to sit up on what he now knows to be a couch, the dog crawls up next to him, and he notices the white patch on the dog's chest and belly for the first time. Oliver pulls up his shirt to look at the bullet wound, surprised to find it already sewed up. Whoever set the stitches was an expert; they almost look like a doctor did the work. He doesn't have much time to look at it, though, because Grendel demands his attention with a heavy paw on his leg. Warily, he pets Felicity's monster of a dog, and he apparently takes it as permission to lay his head on Oliver's lap—but only his head, because there's no room for the rest of the dog.

He absently scratches the dog's ears while staring around the room, taking in the two three-cushion couches in the room, both purple. The lights are low, but she's painted the walls a canary yellow, and it feels surprisingly warm.

Felicity limps out of the kitchen with two mugs in her hands, and Oliver notices an ice pack on the table on the opposite end of the couch. She's changed into pajamas at some point, flannel with what looks like _llamas_ on them, and he shakes his head. Of course. It's Felicity, so he's not asking questions anymore.

She hands him one of the mugs with a smile, her ponytail swinging behind her with some hint of the previous curls. "It's cocoa," she explains as he takes it from her. "I don't have any marshmallows, but I thought something warm would be nice after the cold tonight." She chuckles when she sees the dog draped across his lap. "He likes you, and he doesn't usually like people." She frowns. "I found him under my doorstep one day after work, and it took me a whole bag of baby carrots to lure him out. I think he'd been abused. He was just a puppy then, and I had no idea he was a Newfoundland until I took him to the vet." She chuckles. "He was just thirty pounds then, and I thought he was full-grown." Her expression changes as she meets Oliver's eyes and says, "But, by that point, I'd already fallen in love with him—I couldn't have let him go if I wanted to."

She swats at the dog, and he reluctantly climbs down off the couch so that she can sit on the opposite end from Oliver, facing him. But Grendel climbs between them immediately, laying between her legs and resting his head on her thigh. He's big enough that his tail flops onto Oliver's leg.

Oliver takes off the green jacket, draping it on the arm of the couch next to him. "You seem to have a knack for taking in strays," he answers quietly, clearing his throat when his voice comes out in a rasp.

She chuckles, even though she seems surprised that he's speaking to her at all. "Well, birds of a feather," she answers with a wave of her hand, sipping on her cocoa. "And I like strays. Anymore, it seems like no one understands that the well-tempered blade is the strongest." She studies him again with those intelligent eyes. "Grendel's a survivor. So am I. So are you, I'd bet."

"How did you know?" he asks then, and her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "How did you know who I am?" he clarifies. "The world thinks I'm dead, so what made you realize they were wrong?"

She shakes her head, smiling. "You're an open book to anyone paying attention, Oliver," is her answer. "You gave me your name—thank you for being honest about that, by the way—and then I saw the way you tensed when Diggle mentioned your sister." She shrugs. "And then when you saw Thea again, you had those big, sad, puppy-dog eyes, and it all clicked. And then tonight, you went all... _grr_ "—she completes the description by clawing the air—"on that sniper when he almost hit Thea. Between that and the laptop, it wasn't a huge stretch."

He looks around again, the realization that this is Felicity's home finally setting in—that he could be interrupting something. "I hope I didn't scare any roommates when I came in." He frowns, asking the question, "How did I get here, by the way?"

Felicity pats Grendel's head as she sits the mug behind her. "Grendel's my only roommate—apart from Roy crashing in my guest room on occasion—and he likes you, which earns you a few extra points." She hesitates. "And, well—no offense—but you're _ridiculously_ heavy and I can barely put my _own_ weight on this ankle. So I called in some reinforcements to carry you in." She waves both hands wildly, and Oliver realizes his expression has turned dark. "But they didn't know who you were!" she adds quickly. "I made sure of that. It was Digg and Roy, so they'll keep it quiet." She points to his hip. "I patched you up after they left."

His eyebrows rise in surprise. "These stitches look like I went to a hospital," is his slow reply. It’s meant to draw information out of her, but he’s also surprised that she doesn’t mention the myriad of scars across his torso that he knows she saw when she patched him up. But then he remembers how surprisingly considerate she is, and he’s not surprised any longer.

She shrugs. "I've been patching up Charon's residents for a long time, Oliver," is her short explanation. Then her eyes flick to another doorway behind Oliver, and she nudges Grendel, who finally climbs off the couch to sit at her feet. She rises behind him, motioning Oliver to follow her as Grendel pads along beside her. He grabs his jacket before doing as she asks, and he watches the pair with a faint smile, the dog's nose even with her elbow.

Oliver enters carefully, but then he realizes by the generic feel of the room that it's the guest room. She lays a pair of nondescript gray sweatpants on the bed, then studies him for a moment before pulling out a black t-shirt. "I like to keep extra clothes on hand, just in case someone hears about Charon and comes to me in tatters," is her explanation.

"I think these will fit you, if you want to get out of those clothes." Her eyes fall over him in an appreciative way he doesn't expect—in a way he hasn't received from a woman in five years. "That shirt is covered in blood, and those pants are tight. Like, _really_ tight." He raises an eyebrow as the corners of his mouth lift involuntarily, and her face heats. "Not that I've noticed," she adds quickly, and he chuckles in a way he hasn't in a very long time.

"Thank you, Felicity," he says then, and, for the life of him, he has no idea which act of kindness he's thanking her for. She’s done so much for him, and he’s done so little to deserve it. He isn’t worthy of it, but perhaps he’s been too long in the world without people like her, and he’s selfish enough to want some semblance of normalcy. Still, she knows he’s the Arrow and she isn’t running.

She hesitantly reaches out to him, intentionally with her left hand, and he tries not to flinch when she puts her hand to his face, her thumb running just under his damaged eye. Maybe he likes that she doesn’t try to pity him, that she doesn’t treat him as damaged goods. “You’re welcome, Oliver,” she answers quietly. She bites her lip. “And you’re welcome to stay—for as long as you’d like.”

Part of him knows this is a dangerous situation, but he can’t find it in himself to care because he _wants_ this. She’s somehow worked her way through his walls and defenses, and he doesn’t deny the attraction between them. Judging by the way she’s staring at him, if he were to act, she’d let him. He places his hand on her shoulder tentatively before sliding it up to her neck. She bites her lip, showing the same nervousness he feels, but she doesn’t stop him. It gives him confidence that is completely unwarranted, and he steps forward, leaning toward her in a way that makes his intent unmistakable. Her only response is to let her eyes fall on his lips, and she still doesn’t stop him.

But the knock at the door, however, does.

They jump apart instantly, and Felicity turns a not-so-delicate shade of crimson, suddenly refusing to look at him. “You go ahead,” she says, motioning to the clothes. “I’ll just—” She makes an awkward hand motion, uncertainty all over her features. “I’ll just get the door.” She points to the opposite one. “There’s a bathroom through there—feel free to use whatever you need.”

She bumps into him, and he steadies her, tilting her head up so that her eyes meet his. “We’ll revisit this conversation later,” he murmurs quietly, and he doesn’t think it’s possible, but her blush darkens again. He can’t fight back the smile because he enjoys the effect he has on her.

Apparently she enjoys the effect she has on him, too, because she offers him a smile that immediately puts him on edge. Her eyelids flutter, her gaze dropping to his mouth in a way that makes him want her to just forget their visitor altogether. “I’ll look forward to it,” she answers quietly, and it’s all he can do not to kiss her right then.

The knocking is insistent, though. “Come on, Felicity,” a voice calls, and they both freeze when they recognize it, the color suddenly draining from her face. “I know you’re there, and we need to talk— _now_.”

Felicity takes a step back. “Your decision, Oliver,” she states calmly, then motions to his attire. “But, either way, you probably need to get out of that green gear.” He nods, and then she’s gone, closing the door behind her.

He takes her advice, changing into the clothes on the bed quickly and efficiently. Then he listens at the door, though he doesn’t need to sneak around to eavesdrop; Thea is predictably loud and her voice is rising. “...heard what you said to the Arrow. You called him Oliver, and then you _pointed_ to me.” There’s something in her voice that sounds like a strangled sob, and she stops. It’s immediately followed by the click of heels on hardwood flooring and Felicity’s low murmurs of comfort.

“Look,” she says finally, her voice so quiet he has to strain to hear her, “I know it’s crazy—I know _I’m_ crazy—but I—” She sighs. “I never thought Ollie died when the boat went down. Mom was distraught and she didn’t want to hear it, but I _knew_ better. I want to believe he made it somewhere safe, that he came back home.” Something changes in her tone, and it destroys Oliver because he knows she’s crying. “And I know it’s a crazy leap, but tonight gave me hope and… _Please_ , Felicity. If my brother is alive, just tell me. I promise I won’t look into it or try to find him if he doesn’t want to be found—I just want to know I’m not imagining things. If not, I need _someone_ to help me _let this go_.”

He can’t take it any longer when he knows she needs him, that all it would take to comfort her is for him to step out of the shadows and say _something_. He turns the doorknob, stepping out into the living room to find her facing away, though Felicity looks up at Oliver, waiting and watching. “I think,” she says slowly, “that it’s okay to miss your brother.”

He takes a deep breath, steels himself for what he’s about to do. This was supposed to be anonymous, and now he’s about to do _exactly_ what he wanted to avoid. “Especially since he’s missed you so much over the past five years,” he adds quietly. He finds himself still in the shadows, and he hopes she still can’t see how damaged he is. Not yet.

Thea whirls, not hesitating to stand up and move closer, gasping when she recognizes him from Felicity’s office. “You were right there in front of me,” she whispers. “I _knew_ it. I should have trusted my instincts.” She wraps her arms around his neck, and his arms fold around her.

“I can’t come home, Speedy,” he says finally, warning her of the inevitable heartbreak she’s about to face, and she laughs at the familiar nickname. “I’m not the same person anymore.”

She pulls back long enough to say, “If you think you’re going to scare me off, you’re wrong. I’m not the same person anymore, either. But you’re still my brother, and I’ll take you any way I can have you.”

She releases him, and Felicity says from the distance, “He’s going to be staying here, so you’re welcome here any time you want.” She doesn’t ask Oliver’s opinion of this because she probably already knows how he feels about it.

Thea releases him to turn back to the other woman, pointing a finger. “I trust you to take care of him, Felicity,” she states, her voice taking on a dark tone that doesn’t even make the blonde flinch. “I lost him once, and I don’t want to lose him again.” Part of Oliver wants to protest that he’s not anyone’s responsibility, but they all know Felicity is going to look after him—whether he wants her to or not.

“I’ll do my best,” Felicity answers with a smile, “provided you keep this quiet.” She looks at Oliver before looking back to Thea. “Not that he’d admit it, but I don’t think Oliver is ready to be _Oliver Queen_ again just yet.”

Thea nods, going back to give her brother one last hug. “I have to go before Mom realizes I’m gone,” she says quietly, “but I’m coming back tomorrow—first chance I get.” She looks at him as though she thinks he’ll disappear again, and it’s a valid concern since it seems to be what he’s best at.

“I’ll be here,” he promises her, and he means it. She nods once before leaving, and Felicity closes the door behind her, sighing deeply. For a moment, the room is too quiet, filled with too much emptiness, but then Oliver remembers the other promise he made tonight.

He takes steady steps toward Felicity, all the while wondering if he should forget it and revisit it another night. But he can’t because he already knows that he’ll never take the opportunity again, and something about that just seems unacceptable after all that Felicity is to him. “I believe we had a conversation to finish,” he murmurs to her once he reaches her, letting his hand cup the side of her face.

“So we did,” she answers, maybe a little breathlessly. “But I’m willing to wait until you’re ready to finish what you started.” It’s a subtle challenge, uttered with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

He answers it by meeting her lips with his own.

The kiss is slow and tentative, as if both of them are afraid to move too fast into whatever this is that they’re creating. But then it becomes so hesitant it’s almost agonizing, and Oliver grows more insistent, surprised when Felicity pulls him closer in a silent plea for more, one hand clutching at his shoulder blade and the other at the back of his neck. He has no idea how long they stay like that, but when they break away, she leans back against the door, desperately trying to catch her breath. Admittedly, he’s not in much better shape.

For a long moment, they just stand there, but then she breaks the silence for them. “I’m sorry you couldn’t go home, Oliver,” she says carefully, even though they both know he could if he wanted to. But then he realizes that the Queen mansion will never been home for him again; he’s lost too much, and he would never be the same to him now that so much has happened.

Finally he answers her with, “I _am_ home, Felicity.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the playlist for the entire fic, which is why it's so long. I don't think it will spoil anything, so I'm just going to list it here:
> 
> 01\. "Fake Your Death" - My Chemical Romance  
> 02\. "Never Forever" - Elysion  
> 03\. "God Help the Outcasts" - Heidi Mollenhauer  
> 04\. "Monsoon" - Tokio Hotel  
> 05\. "Burn Bright" - My Chemical Romance  
> 06\. "Surrender the Night" - My Chemical Romance  
> 07\. "Wreckage" - Ben Jelen  
> 08\. "Viva la Vida" - Coldplay  
> 09\. "Life After You" - Daughtry  
> 10\. "Feels Like Tonight" - Daughtry  
> 11\. "Savages" - Theory of a Deadman feat. Alice Cooper  
> 12\. "Creep" - Radiohead  
> 13\. "Cause Disarray" - Galneryus  
> 14\. "The Whole World is Watching" - Within Temptation feat. Dave Pirner  
> 15\. "The World is Ugly" - My Chemical Romance


End file.
